


there is something in your throat that wants to get out, and you won't let it

by Princex_N



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autism, Autistic Hawkeye, Crying, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Meltdown, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: Being yanked out of an already exhausted haze and thrust into noise and urgency and mess is always going to be a lot to cope with, and sometimes you just manage it better than others.This is not one of those times.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	there is something in your throat that wants to get out, and you won't let it

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the tumblr anon for the prompt: **hawk having a meltdown after a tough post op shift, bj helping him out**

To say that it's been a long session in the OR would be something of an understatement, but Hawkeye's usual gift for over-exaggeration is falling a little short of the mark today. 

It's been a lot (it's always a lot); the deluge of wounded forcing them awake in the middle of the night, triage overpacked with kids that needed to be operated on, and a shortage of supply causing chaos in and out of the operating room. It's nothing new - Hawkeye's gotten so used to it he'll probably feel out of place in an organized stateside hospital when ( _if)_ all this ends.

Unfortunately, being used to shitty circumstances doesn't actually make them any easier to deal with. Being yanked out of an already exhausted haze and thrust into noise and urgency and mess is always going to be a lot to cope with, and sometimes you just manage it better than others.

This is not one of those times.

He'd done his best to focus on what he was doing, because coping or not, the wounded need him and there's no getting around that. It doesn't matter if their screams rake like claws over his skin, or that the sharp shout of other surgeon's orders makes him flinch, or if the awareness of the wet warmth of their wounds makes his stomach turn. Regardless of how difficult it is, Hawkeye doesn't have a choice but to try and wrestle his fragmented thoughts and haywire senses under control and keep working. Because it's not easy now, but it never really was, and it probably won't ever be. 

This is what Hawkeye does, so he does it. 

But every joke is pulled out of his throat with scalpels, and every loss under his hands cuts even deeper. He grinds his teeth behind his mask, knowing that he can't give the con away, but helpless to do anything about the growing anger at nothing and everything boiling away inside his chest. Every seam of his uniform digs into his skin and every clatter of tools and wet slap of sponges makes him feel like he's about to lose his mind entirely. 

It's a good thing Hawkeye has gotten so good at laughing instead of screaming these days. 

Eventually, things slow and then stop. Finally, when Hawkeye tells himself 'just one more to get through' it's the truth, but he knows better than to think that the problems go away as soon as the last patient is rolled out into post-op. 

Yanking off stained gowns and masks is a small relief, but it's lost under the all-encompassing urge to just run and keep running. He suffers through just long enough to satisfy the others' expectations and then takes off, not knowing where he's going and not particularly caring. Anywhere would be better than here, with the voices of lingering personnel and the overpowering stench of blood and death that never quite washes out. 

He goes to the swamp because there's nowhere else to go. The idea of sitting around other people just now is too much to think about, the thought of food makes him want to gag, getting drunk sounds as tempting as it does terrible, and as good as a shower seems, the threat of the water falling over his shoulders and the sound of it hitting the stall feels more intimidating than usual. The familiarity of the tent doesn't soothe any of the unsettled feeling under his skin, but Charles is working post-op and BJ was heading out to the mess, so the isolation might count for something. Even if it's only good for avoiding the risk of earning stares, then at least there's that. 

Hawkeye knows that he's breathing too hard, but can't think clearly enough to figure out how to even it out. He's picked a place to be, but he still has to decide what he's supposed to do here, and the choice freezes him out, stalling awkwardly in the center of the tent and scratching at the side of his neck as if he could scrape the raw agony out of him. The still is there, but drinking is a bad idea, and his hands are trembling anyway. Hawkeye doesn't know if it's from the hours of working surgery or the smothering overwhelming sensation of _everything_ , but he keeps away regardless. He might not be drinking right now, but if he breaks the still, future him will hold a grudge for way too long. 

Taking off his boots is a task, so he sits on the edge of his cot stiffly and does it, tossing them to the floor and hating how satisfying it is. Sometimes throwing things is okay, but not in the house (in the swamp) and not when other people are sleeping (or all not sleeping together). Just because he hates the rules doesn't mean he doesn't remember them. 

That just frustrates him all over again; the small relief of making a decision and getting rid of the constriction swept away under a new wave of baseless anger. He peels off his socks, lets them fall to the floor, and then curls up on his cot, as if he might forget to be smothered if he's too busy sleeping. 

It doesn't work, but it was never actually going to. Hawkeye can hear the wheeze of his breath bouncing too close to his ears, and covering them only pushes the unsteady roar of his blood to center stage. The window of trying to find a way out of this is rapidly closing, and Hawkeye can't catch his thoughts well enough to come up with a good solution. 

He tries humming but it feels ragged in his throat and discoordinate in his ears. He'd try knitting, but his eyes ache from operating room lights and the stiff flex of his fingers tells him that he won't be too successful at dodging frustration if he tries it. He tries rocking his body as best as he can curled up on his side, but the sway of the cot just serves to make the nausea rise sharper in his throat. He doesn't want to go anywhere else and risk running into anyone, because he doesn't want to talk to anyone, he doesn't even want to _see_ anyone else. He doesn't want to stay here and try to tease an answer to this problem out of his uncooperative body, he doesn't want to feel like this anymore. 

Doesn't want to _be here_ anymore. 

Hawkeye tosses his head back and it bounces off the metal support of his cot with a satisfying clang, and that helps, so he does it again. The throb of impact and pain along his skull does more to ground him than anything else had up until now, but if he keeps it up then he's liable to get noticed or wind up tumbling off the side of the cot, or maybe just breaking the cheap piece of shit entirely (never let it be said that the army doesn't spare every expense), so he makes himself stop before he can get to lucky number three. 

The decision bring him right back to square one, but Hawkeye can't think of a better one. He's made his way around these episodes before, but this isn't home in Crabapple Cove or his apartment in Boston - it's a shoddily constructed tent with transparent walls, and the freedom to take care of himself the ways he knows how to doesn't exist here. Privacy is a thing of the past, and so are the carefully hoarded moments to himself when he could just let himself _be_ without having to worry about being caught at it. Taking care of himself isn't actually the priority here; being quiet and not getting caught are. 

Instinct makes a decision before he can, and Hawkeye digs his teeth into the meat of his forearm, his nails scrabbling at the back of his neck, he's practically fucking shaking in an attempt to stay as still as he can, desperate to avoid attracting attention. It's the last thing he needs, because they'd be concerned more than they'd be anything else, but Hawkeye doesn't have the capacity for cautious doctors' hands checking for injuries and trying to stop him from causing them to himself. He can't breathe under the weight of the world on his chest, but he digs all of his sharp points into whatever skin he can find because it's the only solution he has. 

Maybe it could have been the solution that worked, the exertion of his own shaking and the sharp feedback of the bites and scratches anchoring him in his skin and drowning out everything else. Maybe it would have continued on a little longer, and then calmed enough for Hawkeye to sleep and wake up in the morning in time to pull on long sleeves and pop his collar and pretend like everything is as fine as it ever gets in this place. 

Maybe it could have been, but it isn't. BJ waltzes in before any of it gets a chance. 

Hawkeye is a lot of things, but 'still' and 'quiet' have never been among them, and he could fool someone walking past the netting, but he can't count it as much of a shock when BJ pauses in his quiet circuit around the tend to ask "Hawk?" concernedly. 

There's no stopping the ragged noise Hawkeye makes in response, but he bites down harder in a vain attempt at it anyway. 

(BJ is both the best and the worst person to see this, the person Hawkeye loves to be around more than anyone else, and the absolute last person he'd want seeing him like this. It's not like he had much of a chance anyway. It's not much of a consolation.) 

"Aw, shit, Hawk. Don't do that," BJ admonishes quietly, cluing on despite Hawkeye's best attempts to prevent exactly that. His hands hover uncertainly, clearly wanting to touch but not doing so (yet). "What's wrong?" 

_What isn't wrong?_ Hawkeye wonders, but in a truly mature display of behavior, doesn't actually answer. He also doesn't let go of his arm, despite the bizarre feeling of being a family dog caught with something in its mouth that shouldn't be there. Hawkeye never has been fond of animal comparisons. 

While BJ is still trying to come up with a solution, and Hawkeye is still considering the family dog, they both wind up startled when Hawkeye snarls out a noise of pain as his teeth finally dig in deep enough to burst metal over his tongue. He lets go (because not even he knows how to explain away the need for stitches in open wounds in the shape of his own teeth), and scrambles for something to replace the sensation as everything swarms over him again, amplified by the weight of BJ's eyes on him, watching as everything falls apart. 

"Shit," BJ swears again, and _then_ he grabs Hawkeye, hands firm around his biceps in the way that doesn't hurt (that might even help), "Come on, Hawk, get down here," and _that's_ outrage enough to get Hawkeye to start speaking. He's not a child, and no one gets to just pin him to the ground like some kind of misbehaving miscreant. 

He flails haphazardly, equal parts desperate to get BJ's hands off of him and entirely unwilling to hurt the other man as he does so. "Hey!" he snaps, "What - what - what-," and then _that's_ horror enough to finally bust down whatever self-control Hawkeye had left, and he bursts into hot, overwhelmed tears. He hasn't gotten stuck like this since he was a child, brain and mouth unable to push past to the next syllable and refusing to let go of the one they do have to preserve any dignity by just stopping altogether. 

BJ makes a meaningless noise in his throat, equal parts an attempt at comfort and an urge to quiet the repetition, but continues on his path until they're both on the floor. Hawkeye winds up in BJ's lap, pressed to his chest and held there, both of them right in the cover of the cot and the chair that will keep anyone passing by from noticing anything. Hawkeye appreciates that nearly as much as he would have appreciated a clear heads-up about what BJ was planning; he'd make a mental note to tell BJ that if he could think past the mortification of the tears. 

He's a bit beyond doing anything about that now, he hadn't wanted to start in the first place and he can't stop himself now, so he resigns himself to it because there's no other option. He presses his face into BJ's shoulder and does the best he can to muffle all of the choked noises he's making without really meaning to and lets the press and shift of BJ's shirt against the lingering feedback from the bites do their best to drag him back towards something calmer. 

The pressure of BJ's arms around him helps, he realizes distantly, but with that small bit of relief and the knowledge that he's hidden better than he was before, Hawkeye can't work through the need to _move_. Unfortunately, BJ interprets the spastic writhing as a wordless request to be released and entirely unintentionally, Hawkeye lets out a high-pitched noise of pain and terror in response. BJ is quick to wrap his arms back around him - even tighter than before. 

Hawkeye has no idea how much time passes like that. If he'd lost track of time in the tight pain of teeth and stillness, then he forgets the concept entirely in the warm compression of BJ's arms and the steady rock of his body, the quiet hum in his throat. 

He comes down eventually, the world losing all of its sharp edges and BJ's arms becoming more of a comfort than a lifeline, leaving him boneless between them. He probably could get up, make his inane excuses and stumble to bed and end all of this here, but he doesn't. Drowsiness and exhaustion make their homes in his head and Hawkeye doesn't fight to evict them, because at least here there's the knowledge that if the pain returns or if someone else wanders in BJ will be able to handle it. _I've got you, Hawk_ , BJ says it all the time, and Hawkeye believes it right now more than ever, and it's _enough_ to chase away any urgency to re-establish what's 'normal', at least for now. 

When he wakes up it's still early, barely light outside, and Hawkeye is back in his cot instead of sprawled out in the dirt. That would have already been a lot - too much to ever ask for, anywhere at all and especially here - but the bites on his arms have been looked at, the worst of them cleaned and bandaged, and the raw skin on his neck has been cared for. BJ himself is slouched in the chair next to Hawkeye's cot; asleep, but well within reach if Hawkeye had needed him again. 

There are no shouts or PA announcements demanding their time, so Hawkeye doesn't get up. The exhaustion from last night is still lingering, but he doesn't go back to sleep just yet, can't quite bring himself to when he's this overwhelmed in the best kind of way. 

Instead he lays there and stares up at BJ's sleeping face, stealing the quiet moments he can't always get where other people can see, and wonders how he ever got this lucky and how he could ever begin to express his gratitude. 

(Loving BJ is one of the hardest and easiest things Hawkeye has ever done. He wishes it could be easier.)

(But expressing himself isn't actually the priority here; being quiet and not getting caught are.)

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this fic and want to send in a prompt of your own; feel free! i don't work on any kind of guaranteed time table, but i've enjoyed working with the ideas i've gotten so far, so i'm willing to hear more!
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


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